


One of Those Times

by cheese



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Alcohol, Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheese/pseuds/cheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, after a long shift, Greg just wants to get lost. And honestly, in this city, he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beenwandering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beenwandering/gifts).



> Written randomly because of that "write me fic in my askbox" thing on tumblr for Chaney.
> 
> Thanks to Cee for the quick beta.

Sometimes, after a long shift (not that they weren't all long, but some just stretched for what seemed like weeks, and took years off your back, made you question everything you knew), Greg just wants to get lost. And honestly, in this city, he can.

That's one of the many thing he loves about Vegas: being able to walk down the strip at an ungodly hour and still be surrounded by masses, becoming just another face in the crowd, someone the drunk bachelorette party "woo's" at and flashes and someone that a Madonna impersonator tries to sidle up next to. Like he hadn't lived here all his life, hadn't walked, talked, written the history and known it inside and out. The anonymity of the city makes it easier to breathe, the colors and lights and noise help drown out the terrors of the every day and remind him that there is still good, there is still fun to be had.

And he'd be lying if he said he never sought company on one of these nights either. On a night where the lights and colors and noises are too stifling after a while, and he needs to focus on something, or have his focus entirely shattered in a different way. It's on one of those nights, as he's looking for something to distract him from the distractions that Greg sees her.

Greg keeps walking, knowing at least four other girls will approach him before she does, and he hopes she doesn't go up to the car, knows he shouldn't do this and fuck would DB throttle him if he got caught, a whiff of whiskey on his breath, barely off-shift. But he doesn't care. He goes. The need is way stronger than any of that.

He politely declines the first four girls and keeps his fingers crossed (hands both tucked into his jean pockets) that she'll approach him, that she won't recognize him and won't come at him all sharp-nails and accusing tones. But if she doesn't recognize him, or simply recognizes the need above all, she approaches him. Her voice is just as silky-smooth as the girls before her (though he knows that's not her real voice, not the one she uses when she's furious or resigned).

"Looking for some company?" Her fingers brush down his arm, stopping at the back of his hand. Greg follows the movement with his eyes, trying his hardest to not let his hand shake, or worse yet, turn around and grab hers.

"Yeah," Greg says, not really trusting his voice to say much else. But it's enough.

She flashes him one of her practiced smiles as he looks back up at her face. (She looks tired. Greg hopes belatedly she's eating well, thinks he'll try to check her arms for needle-marks.)  
They walk to the motel without another word, and it's refreshing. Greg doesn't even feel the need to fill the empty silences with inane small-talk about the weather or a random news story he could rattle off the top of his head.

When they get to the motel, she takes him straight to the room, obviously hers for however long. Greg tries not to think about all the DNA lurking at every corner and does a mental sigh of relief at the changed sheets. Small mercies.

"200 an hour, condom on, kinky shit's extra. Money up front." Her voice rattles off the practiced speech from too-close behind him, suddenly, and Greg startles. He turns to her and reaches for his wallet, pulling out a couple hundreds and handing them to her, without a word.

She takes them and stuffs them in her purse, swapping the bills for a condom she puts on the nightstand, then she kicks off her heels and walks up to him.

"We gonna do this, or are you paying me for the company?"

Her hand finds itself on the back of his again, fingers tracing up the same route as before, and he doesn't try to stop the shaking now, instead shoves the wallet back in his pocket and reaches for her. Greg holds her close, simply nosing at her neck, inhaling and immersing himself in her completely - all ash and greasy diners and cheap perfume - before he kisses her there and runs his hands down her bony back, just holding.

Her breath stutters, but her hands reach for him too, much less sure than he'd expected, but skilled nonetheless, just the right amount of pressure as they drag from his shoulders to his waistband. She begins to pull at his shirt while her mouth runs up his neck, barely open, her hot breath a welcome dampness on his skin.

Greg becomes suddenly unsure, all the doubts creeping back up his mind, like her fingers now under his shirt, sliding with the barest touch against his skin. But she kisses his neck properly; once, twice, before moving closer up against him, pressing her body up to his and walking him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Greg stumbles for a moment, then sits on the edge, their faces pulling apart before she straddles him.

She looks different in this light, no longer tinted by the neon signs outside, only the dim yellow hue from the bedside lamp. She looks better this way, somehow, not jaundiced like he'd expected, but prettier, more natural. Or maybe it's that final shot of whiskey finally hitting his system. Greg doesn't question it anymore when she starts a slow grind against him, taking a moment to slide his hands from her back to her thighs, naked where her short dress rode up.

He wants to look at her more, just look, but thinks that'd be weird, and might be insulting to her, considering how hard he is under her, how much he _wants_. So he stops thinking, letting his hands roam up and down her naked skin, lifting the dress higher and higher, until he's gripping her ass and she's gasping into his ear as her hands roam to his front and begin undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Greg begins to get lost in the sensation of skin against skin, of the soft rustling of their clothes as they shed them one by one - her fingers deftly undo his buttons then slide off his shirt, while he manages to lift her dress up over her head. Before he knows it, they’re both on the bed, naked, his boxers and her panties and bra lost somewhere in a pile next to the bed, and he’s trying not to think about the dirt and grime again. It helps when she straddles his thighs, this time naked, her body warm against his, nearly burning in the chill of the air-conditioned room.

She reaches down, trying to rub his cock to full hardness, but she doesn’t have to, not really, as the haze of his exhaustion and the alcohol and too many months without this are doing a good enough job on their own. Greg can feel precome begin to leak out as her hand continues working him, a tight, dry heat, making him forget everything else. She chuckles when she notices, and he’d be embarrassed, probably, if he wasn’t so turned on, if he didn’t have her on top of him, and if she didn’t lean down and (finally) kiss him.

The kiss isn’t what he’d expected either, it’s much softer, a stark contrast to the faster and faster motions of her hand on his dick, her other hand digging into his bicep. Greg’s hands are back on her body, running all over, holding, squeezing, caressing. He lets himself run them up to her front, and cup her breasts, fondling them, squeezing her nipples gently until she gasps into his mouth and grips him on just this side of too-tight. He thrusts up into her hand then, and it’s like she remembers the clock and what he’d paid for because her hands leave his body and reach for the condom before she tears it open and slides it over his erection.

Greg slides his hands from her breasts to her hips helping her position herself on top of him before she finally sinks down, her entire heat enveloping him completely. He must make a sound because she’s smiling down at him, face framed by her long blonde hair before she kisses him again, hands sliding up his torso and holding his shoulders. Then she’s off. She rides him slower than he thought she might, slower than he thinks he needs, but he doesn’t thrust up into her, doesn’t want to interrupt this moment, lets her take her time. She rolls her hips expertly above him, rubbing herself against him with each movement, their bodies damp with sweat between them.

It seems like forever that she’s fucking him this slowly, but he knows it isn’t, figures she’s got a clock built-in in her head, timing it all perfectly. As she finally picks up the pace, suddenly, he knows their time will be up soon and it jostles him just a bit. It reminds him he paid her for this. It would normally make him want to push her off, remind him of some morals, but she’s still kissing him, and holding him so tight. She’s everywhere. And he’s lost. He finally grips her hips tightly, or she finally lets him, and begins thrusting up to meet her grinding, fucking up into her, harder and faster. The pace makes her break their kiss and pull away, throw her head back, moans too-quiet to be pornographic, too-quiet to be what he’d expected from her falling from her lips.  
Greg watches the way her hair falls around her face, the way her eyes are closed and her mouth is open; the sheen of sweat around her brow and down her neck and the tightness in her arms as she grips his forearms. He can feel her tightening around him, squeezing him, and the friction is everything he needed, the pressure all around his cock just right. It only takes a few more wild thrusts and his mouth finally getting away from him with a stream of expletives. Then just a few more rolls of her hips, and a moan he’s sure is practiced, but he’s coming, filling up the condom, still shuddering into her.

“Fuck, Ellie,” flies out of his mouth and he probably imagines them both freezing on the spot, her eyes widening, nails digging in too tight into his skin, because she’s leaning down to kiss him, like nothing happened and he mumbles a couple more “fuck yeah’s” to try and cover up.

She pulls off soon after, slides the condom off him and throws it in the trash can, then runs her hand up and down his torso idly, not looking at his face. It gives Greg yet another chance to look at her, though, finally seeing the tired lines in her face, the bags under her eyes. He remembers to look at her arms and it makes him happy when he doesn’t see any tracks. He feels happier overall, lighter, now.

She notices him staring and coughs, about to tell him to get out, make her excuses, but Greg grabs the hand running over his chest and holds it, intentionally or not over his heart, like the sentimental dude he is.

“Stay,” he says.

“I-“

“I’ll pay you.” His voice doesn’t break or shake, makes up for the nervous fluttering inside of him and the doubts running through his head. But this is right. It feels right. He watches her until she looks back.

She pulls her hand out of his grip and stands up, and he wants to say something, but is suddenly out of words all over again. She bends down and throws his pants at him and he can feel his face dropping, not sure how to school it back to neutral as he begins to sit up.

She walks back and sits on the edge, one knee pulled up, the other leg propped beside the bed.  
She smiles at him and shakes her head, says, “Money up front.”


End file.
